


We Survive This Night

by gymwrites



Category: Gymnastics RPF
Genre: F/F, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-09-10 23:20:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8943502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gymwrites/pseuds/gymwrites
Summary: Aly faces down the prospect of a fancy evening with Russian dignitaries.





	

“Aliya. Are you sure… I’m meant to be here?”

Aliya Mustafina glances sideways at her nervously fidgeting partner. The plunging neckline of Aly Raisman’s body-hugging, silk black couture dress is distracting as all hell, but the Russian’s deeply ingrained discipline forces her eyes upwards.

Reaching over to deftly tuck a piece of stray hair behind Aly’s ear, Aliya smiles reassuringly. “I am here. So you are nowhere but here too.”

Aly breathes a little easier, but only a little. She looks down at the row of intimidating marble busts extending out in front of them, a ghostly welcome party of nameless Greek philosphers. Set atop several mantlepieces on either side of the garish red-carpeted hallway are giant diamond-encrusted candelabras. To top off the decadence, ornate gold-framed pieces of Renaissance art stretch from the curved interior ceiling down to the walls - mostly men sitting astride galloping stallions with sabres drawn, or men and women of bygone eras in various states of undress.

Unconsciously, Aly shakes her head, wondering for the millionth time how it is she wound up in the main corridor of the Russian Minister for Cultural Affair’s personal villa, waiting to be ushered into a grand ballroom quickly filling up with other Russian A-listers. 

Strains of what sounds like a full ensemble orchestra start up. 

“Tchaikovsky.”

“Hm?” Aly struggles to keep her nerves in check as they approach the line of elegantly dressed and gloved men and women disappearing in through the towering entrance doors.

“They start play Tchaikovsky. Waltz of the Flowers, from second act of Nutcracker. A favorite of Russians. And mine.”

Forgetting her uncomfortable predicament for a moment, Aly grins at Aliya, who tries to keep her pulse from rising too quickly. “I love when you do that. When you just know the name and section of any piece of music.”

Aliya shrugs, a smile playing on her lips. She had known showing off her encyclopedic knowledge of classical repertoire would elicit that exact reaction from the American, but the satisfaction of impressing Aly warms her all the same. She calmly smooths the side of her own dress, a flowing Persian blue backless evening gown with a center-front split showing off just enough leg so that it perfectly straddles the line between classy and scandalous.

“Ready?” 

“Am I ready to walk into a roomful of Russian emissaries and celebrities, trying not to look like an American who knows nothing about Tchaikovsky and everything about season thirty of America’s Next Top Model, including why Jana pulled out Kylie’s weave? You bet.”

Laughing, Aliya extends her hand towards Aly. She doesn’t have the words to express how happy she is the girl had agreed to come with her to what promised to be another arduously boring award ceremony for Russia’s ‘brightest and best’. 

Eyeing the hand carefully, Aly pauses, her gaze darting towards the growing swell of polite chatter. “You sure you want to…? I mean I’m okay with just hanging around behind, I’m pretty certain they all just want to speak with you anyway. And I know this… us… isn’t something you’re really meant to show here…” 

“I am sure.”

With a deep breath, Aly takes hold of Aliya’s hand. The Russian gives her a quick squeeze, then suddenly pulls Aly in closer, close enough to whisper something that’s meant for her hearing alone.

“We survive this night. Then we go home. And then we make love.”

Aly immediately feels her face flush a bright red. 

“Okay. Somehow you managed to make that sound like a quick and easy three-step recipe for making mac and cheese.”

“Yes. You are quick, and very easy.” The low huskiness in Aliya’s tone sends ripples of heady sensations through Aly’s body.

“That’s not what I… that is not true!” Aly tries to keep her voice down, outrage shining through her eyes at Aliya’s blatantly non-sequitur response. A smile spreads across her face, the one she reserves for when Aliya is deliberately stirring.

Mirroring the other girl’s smile, Aliya stares directly into those deep pools of chocolate brown she’s grown to love so much. “Then? You have problem with this three steps?”

“Oh no. I have no problem. Those people over there though…” Aly looks over Aliya’s shoulder at the cluster of haughty looking guests she’s just noticed, a lady covered in lace pointing a not-so-subtle finger in their direction. “They’re staring at us funny.”

“Let them stare. It is hard not to, with you.”

Aly flicks her eyes back towards Aliya, taking a moment to drink in the long lashes, the sultry eyes, the perfectly rouged cheeks, the crimson lips curled into a vaudeville smile. “That line was super cheesy. Even for you.”

Aliya’s expression grows serious. “I cannot help this. All these years in America make me this way.”

“How so?”

“You make me eat too much your mac and cheese.”

Aly laughs out loud, an intense love for Aliya’s silliness overwhelming her senses. “You know, I think that might be your lamest joke ever. I’m proud of you.”

“It is all your fault, Raisman.”

The American sighs, turning towards the ballroom entrance and gesturing at the doors, where the last of the guests are trickling through. “And this is all your fault. I’m going to be eaten alive in there. I think that makes us even.”

A few moments of silence pass, both of them feeling like the evening is going to drag out for an eternity. Then - 

“I love you, Aly.” The simplicity with which Aliya delivers this carries the full weight of her appreciation for the other girl’s willingness to be with her for something she’s only showing up for out of a sense of patriotic duty. The fact that Aly will be just about the only American - maybe even the only foreigner - in a roomful of zealously nationalistic Russians doesn’t escape her mind for one second.

Aly peers over at her, smile back in place. “Hey. I love you too. I also figured… what better way to spend a Friday evening than rub shoulders with Vladimir Putin?” 

A shaped eyebrow is swiftly raised. “You want rub my president’s shoulder?”

“What? No! No I meant… It’s like a term we use to describe…” Aly stops frantically blabbering when she spots the teasing twinkle in Aliya’s eye. The Russian’s efforts to throw her off are rewarded with an indignant slap on the arm.

Aliya chuckles. “Maybe you ask him for good mac and cheese recipe.”

“Maybe. Or maybe I’ll just not.”

After anxiously adjusting her dress for no reason at all, Aly lifts her head up high. “We can survive tonight, right?”

Aliya nods, wanting to kiss the girl right then and there, in the home of one of Russia’s most powerful officials. 

“Yes. Then we go home to make mac and cheese.”


End file.
